Pillow Talk
by MizJoely
Summary: Follow up to "Dinner Conversation" & "Conversations With A Dead Detective." Final installment, ya'll! Molly and Sherlock go back to her place after dinner with their friends. Friskiness ensues and words are spoken that can never be taken back.


**Pillow Talk**

**(Third in the "Conversation Pieces" series)**

_A/N: Hang in there folks, this is gonna get _nasty_. In the good sense. __Note the rating change, vs. the other stories in this series: it happened for a darn good reason. I own no one and nothing, etc. etc. __Oh, and, uh, there's really not a lot of conversation in this story (which, just so you know, did not go anything like I imagined it would - but sometimes the characters have their own ideas and the writer can but hang on and enjoy the ride). But it finishes up the trilogy, yay! One more project crossed off my list…on to finishing up "Abandoned" and non-Sherlock projects and then I can post new stuff again. That's the plan, anyway. Enjoy!_

* * *

Sherlock didn't even have the decency to wait until the next day – or even until they reached her flat – before he started dissecting the dinner and the various conversations and mini-confrontations it had consisted of.

"Why did everyone laugh when I said we should place our dinner orders?" he demanded as soon as he'd given the cab driver directions to Molly's flat "It wasn't remotely humorous, nor was it meant to be. Explain," he practically ordered.

She didn't have to say "not good" for him to realize his discomfort had translated into what she was interpreting as anger or at least disregard for her as a human being, so he added: "Please," in a much softer tone of voice.

Her expression softened, her frown disappeared and the smile he'd grown so very fond of (he still had no idea when or how it had gone from just another way to judge someone's mood to something he enjoyed seeing on her face) came back. "I don't know," she said in response to his request (demand). "It's hard to put into words."

He settled back in his seat and waited, reaching out and taking her hand in his without questioning why he did so.

As she had on the ride to the restaurant, Molly took that small physical intimacy as a sign she should initiate one of her own, and nestled her head against his shoulder. He had no objections, of course, in spite of his history of avoiding physical contact due to its distracting nature. Even he recognized that Molly wasn't trying to distract him or derail his train of thought, that she was simply taking advantage of what he was willing to offer.

And he was equally willing to take advantage of what she was offering. He shifted his weight just enough to allow him to slide his arm along her shoulder, biting back a satisfied grin when she sighed and snuggled her body closer to his.

Once they two of them had arranged themselves as comfortably as they were able in the back of the cab, he returned to his questions. "Molly?"

"You just...you broke the tension, the little bit that was left," she explained now that she'd had time to think about what to say. "Just by being you. And that's why we all laughed and no, I can't explain it better than that," she added as she glanced up and caught the confused frown on his face. "You'll just have to take my word for it, Sherlock. No one was laughing _at_ you, just with you."

Disinclined as he was to let any mystery just rest, Sherlock forced himself to do so this time. After all, discomforting Molly wasn't his intention, and clearly if he pursued this line of questioning that would be the only thing he would accomplish. "I see," he said, although he didn't, not remotely. But feeling Molly relax against him told him more than words that he'd made the right choice.

The remainder of the cab ride passed in comfortable silence. They arrived at Molly's building; he paid the driver while she fumbled for her keys, then he followed her up to the first floor flat and through the door once she got it open.

Toby greeted them with a loud meow, as if he'd been neglected and left to starve in spite of the fact that he'd been fed less than four hours ago. Molly fussed over him, gave him one of the atrocious-smelling liver snacks he favored, refilled his water dish and removed her shoes before once again turning to face Sherlock.

She was nervous, he deduced. She rarely brought a man back to her flat for sexual purposes and the fact that she was in love with him – and had spent a less than comfortable night out, mostly due to his own ineptitude – was causing her to doubt herself.

He'd caused this, therefore, he reasoned, he needed to be the one to alleviate it. Any hesitation on his part would no doubt be read as some form of rejection, which was not his intention.

As Molly opened her mouth to say something – most likely an offer of tea or coffee – he took the few steps needed to invade her personal space and swept her into his arms for a heated kiss.

**oOo**

Molly wouldn't deny being nervous as Sherlock paid the cabbie and followed her up the stairs to her flat. She wouldn't deny being even more nervous when the two of them were inside said flat. She was thankful for Toby winding his way around her ankles and demanding her attention, putting off for a few more minutes the need for Molly to try and figure out how to handle Sherlock's presence in her flat for the sole, stated purpose of having sex with her.

Oh, she wasn't worried about the sex part, not really. Just the moments leading up to it; how to initiate things, should she fix him a cup of tea or a glass of wine – he'd drunk one at dinner so she knew he wasn't averse to a nice red – and when should they move to the bedroom, start taking off clothes...

Sherlock, in his own, unique fashion, rendered her nervous mental dithering moot by tugging her back upright from where she'd bent down to pet Toby and pulling her into his embrace for a lovely, toe-curling kiss that drove all doubts and worries from her mind.

If any had remained, he would have completely destroyed them by his next actions; as the kiss ended, with Molly gasping for breath and blinking up at him like an idiot, he swept her into his arms bridal-style and carried her to her bedroom in the single most romantic gesture she'd been the recipient of in her entire life.

He didn't just settle her on the bed, either; he continued to hold her in his arms as he sank onto the cheerful yellow-and-green striped duvet, toeing off his shoes while simultaneously kissing her breathless again. Her arms were wound around his neck, the fingers of one hand desperately clutching those soft, dark curls that had driven her mad for so many years.

Their first time together had been desperate, as much a way for them to cope with the near-tragic events of Sherlock's leap from roof of St. Bart's as it was a release of pent-up energy and a way to drain off the excess adrenaline pumping through both their systems. Oh, Molly knew that for her it was as much an emotional release as a physical one, but until this very night she'd never known for sure if Sherlock felt anything for her beyond the trust and friendship he'd already admitted to.

Things were different, now. Not so urgent, not so desperate, although the fervency of his lips on hers, the way his tongue dueled with hers and his hands gripped her as tightly as they had that night might lead her to think otherwise.

But no, she could _feel_ the difference, and knew he could as well. Could feel the care he was taking in spite of that tight grip not to bruise her the way he had last time. The kiss was less of an attack and more of a satisfying exploration of long-neglected territory.

This time there were no buttons popped off, no rips or tears as clothing was removed. They were still tossed to the floor to fall where they might, but still in one piece – well, several pieces but each piece complete, Molly amended as her thoughts devolved into a mushy mass of nothingness once Sherlock's lips moved from her lips to where her clothing formerly covered her, starting at the base of her throat and slowly – but methodically; Sherlock did everything methodically, thank God for that – kissed his way down to a very wet, very excited portion of her anatomy.

She'd only had one boyfriend ever go down on her, back in the days before Sherlock, when her dates weren't one disaster after another (_don't think about Jim, don't even come close to thinking about Jim Moriarty or you'll spoil the mood, Molly Hooper_). She wasn't even sure if she liked it, since said boyfriend hadn't been particularly enthusiastic or, frankly, talented at it, but once Sherlock's lips settled against her sex Molly felt as if she'd been zapped by the most powerful blast of static electricity ever. The hair on the nape of her neck and arms literally stood up as she moaned Sherlock's name, her fingers somehow ending up tangled in his dark curls as his tongue joined his lips in testing and tasting her in ways she'd never experienced in her entire life.

When his fingers joined in, her hips literally jerked, lifting her bum off the mattress and eliciting a feral, guttural moan from her throat that sounded like no noise she'd ever made in her life. It was embarrassing, that noise, but she stopped trying to stifle her reaction when Sherlock responded by pausing and looking up long enough to meet her eyes and devastate her with a slow, wicked grin before diving back down with increased enthusiasm aimed solely at causing her to completely fall apart.

As far as plans went, it was an astounding success. He kissed, he nibbled, he flicked his tongue across her clit, sucking and licking, stroking and teasing as his fingers – two, possibly three, possibly all of them she thought in her delirium – slid in and out of her slick wetness with increasing speed until she came with a scream that probably scared the shit out of Toby. Possibly the upstairs neighbors as well as the ones down below. Served them right if it did; they played their bloody stereo too loudly at odd hours, even on weeknights, and Molly couldn't bring herself to give a shit even though she normally spent more time worrying about other's feelings than her own.

**oOo**

Sherlock could be forgiven for feeling just a bit smug as Molly clenched and tightened her pubic muscles, her hips once again lifting off the mattress as she dug her fingers into his scalp and screamed his name as she came completely undone. The increased moisture in her vaginal area, the trembling in her limbs, the sweat on her body and – yes, he peered up as the smugness manifested in a smile, her tightly-shut eyes and the flush still flooding her face, neck and torso all told the same story.

In short, he'd managed to make her forget all her worries and doubts and his own less than perfect behavior earlier this evening. He'd pushed all such concerns from her mind, for the moment definitely and for the foreseeable future he anticipated. Only one way to ensure that such thoughts remained far from her mind, however, and he looked forward with considerable pleasure to implementing phase two of this evening's (private) activities.

With that in mind, he extricated himself from between Molly's legs (which had at some point ended up slung across his shoulders, a delightful weight to bear). Her hands had fallen limply to her sides as she continued to lie back, breathing heavily and occasionally shuddering with the aftershocks of her orgasm.

As he crawled up next to her, gazing down at her in no small amount of satisfaction, he had to wonder at himself for denying his body the pleasures of the flesh for so long and for so little reason. Oh yes, the body was simply transport and in many cases caring wasn't an advantage, but his time spent away from his friends and the woman who was now his lover (_not girlfriend, as she was hardly a girl at this stage in her life_, _just as he was no longer a boy_) had taught him that sentiment did, indeed, have a place even for someone such as himself. Someone who valued intellect above the base needs of the body – but had now come to terms with both aspects of himself.

Molly had always managed to maintain such a balance; how had he missed the importance of her ability to balance her career and sentiment and somehow make it all work in harmony? Oh, not her feelings for him, of course, he thought with a return to his original smugness as he curled his body around hers, pressing soft kisses to the back of her neck as she sighed and squirmed against him in a thoroughly delightful – and exceedingly tantalizing – manner. He always managed to disrupt her calm the way no one else ever could. Lucky for him that she'd never allowed his abrupt and abrasive manner to do more than upset her in the short term.

Very, very lucky for him, he concluded as she turned in his arms, her eyes finally opened, bright and smiling just for him. Always, always for him. Because she loved him.

And, he realized with a fair amount of surprise, he loved her. An emotion he'd scoffed at, denied the existence of and refused to believe could ever apply to him.

He opened his mouth to tell Molly how he felt, but found the words stopped by her lips pressing against his, her tongue invading his mouth, no doubt tasting herself as she rolled him onto his back in sudden urgency.

He lay back and allowed it to happen; there would be plenty of time for him to share this epiphany with her, he reasoned as she pressed her damp sex against his straining erection. Oh, plenty of time for…for…

Thoughts jumbled into chaos as she slid down his body and took his heated shaft in her firm grip, lowering her head to suck him deep into her mouth. He let out a strangled gasp as she did so, having never experienced anything quite like it in his limited sexual experience – or having deleted it as irrelevant.

Well. He certainly wouldn't be deleting any single part of this night, not even the embarrassing bits in the restaurant. This however – the feel of Molly's hot, wet mouth against his penis, her hands stroking him, cupping his balls, gliding over his thighs and stomach as he moaned and gasped much the way she had only moments earlier – would be given its own special place in his mind palace. A shrine to ecstasy, he thought as he felt his control slipping away.

Before he could entirely give himself up to the moment, however, Molly stopped, pulling away from him and grinning at him with as much smugness as he had grinned at her when their eyes met. He smiled back and reached for her, cupping her breasts in his hands as she leaned forward to kiss him, reaching behind her with one hand to guide him into her welcoming wetness.

She sighed with what sounded like a great deal of contentment as he slid home deep inside her, raising her hips and allowing herself to glide up and down with agonizing slowness.

He allowed it for a few moments, but knew the teasing couldn't last, not for either of them. Molly's teeth were gritted, her eyes starting to glaze over, her movements increasing in speed as the sweet friction grew between them. He seized her by the arms and flipped her onto her back again, her legs wrapping around his waist as he pushed back into her, resting his face by the side of her neck, licking and sucking at the spot just above her pulse point, listening contentedly as her soft cries and mewls of pleasure became whimpers of his name.

When her fingers started digging into his shoulders, nails grazing the sensitive skin there, he hissed in mingled pain and pleasure before redoubling his efforts, raising his hips and slamming them against hers in an increasingly fervent series of thrusts. He heard her cry out his name for a second time, turning her head away from his so she wasn't screaming it right in his ear, but even if she had he wouldn't have been able to spare the energy to care. Not when his own undoing was following hard on the heels of her own, when his own body was busy spending itself into hers, binding them together for a moment of shared ecstasy that came to an end all too soon.

**oOo**

It was the best sex she'd ever had. Ever. Bar none. Better even than their first time together. So much better, if only because she knew how much it really meant this time. That it wasn't just adrenaline and fear and reaction to a near-death experience and simple proximity.

She said it aloud, not that Sherlock needed to have his massive ego fed on compliments, but for the sheer joy of saying the words. "That was fantastic, Sherlock, God, the best ever."

They lay entwined in each other's embrace, still sticky and sweaty and covered in various fluids and neither one caring at the moment. Clean up and reality could wait just a little while longer.

Her head was resting on his shoulder, his chin on her temple and his arms wrapped around her. She felt as well as heard his "hmmm" of agreement as she rested her own arm against his mid-section, listening contentedly to the beat of his heart as they lay there, basking in the afterglow.

It had been a perfect day, in spite of the missteps that had led up to this particular moment. A wonderful, perfect day. Nothing could make it any better.

And then Sherlock went and did what he did so many times: he put her off-balance, turned her entire world on its head and sent her mind spinning.

"Molly," he murmured. She responded with a sleepy, questioning "hmm?" without opening her eyes, expecting him to want to excuse himself for the inevitable clean-up. Or to tell her that his arm was going numb.

When he murmured three little words in her ear, she went very, very still, not certain she'd heard him correctly. No; _positive_ she'd not heard him correctly. Because he couldn't possibly have said what she thought she heard.

He chuckled and gently turned her so she was facing him. Her eyes had snapped open at those impossible, fantastic – conjured by her imagination, they had to have been – words falling so softly from his lips and she found herself staring at him, wide-eyed and trembling and feeling the prickling of tears in the backs of her eyes and she wasn't…she was _not_ going to cry, dammit!

Sherlock's hand was on her cheek, his lips pressing against hers, then against her eyelids as she squeezed them shut in a vain attempt to keep the tears from spilling out. "You…I thought you just said…" she managed to stutter out in a whisper, but couldn't finish the thought, the words clogging themselves in her throat as her grip on his waist tightened.

"I said it, Molly," Sherlock rumbled in reply, his lips once again against her ear. "Shall I say it again, so you can confirm that you're not hallucinating or imagining things or just hearing what you want to hear?"

Since those were exactly the thoughts she'd been having – and wasn't it just like Sherlock to know exactly what she'd been thinking – she just nodded, her hand moving up to clutch at his shoulder, her heart beating wildly in her chest and the stupid, stupid tears still spilling down her cheeks as he spoke.

Three little words, ones she'd never hoped to hear from him no matter how physically intimate they became.

Three little words that meant so much to her.

"I love you."


End file.
